


Different Seasons

by smuttyandabsurd



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Autumn, Drabble, Fluff, M/M, Spring, Summer, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 06:02:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smuttyandabsurd/pseuds/smuttyandabsurd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of drabbles to the theme of seasons of the year.</p><p>Prussia/England. Fluff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Different Seasons

**Spring**

Gilbert whistled to himself as he twisted the sign on the window to read ‘Open’ and wiped the glass door down with a rag. It was mid-spring, still a little nippy outside but getting noticeably warmer by the day. The trees, which had been rather forlorn-looking during the April showers, were beginning to bud hopefully at the tips with the sun’s trickling encouragement. It was, in short, a rather splendid start to a full day’s work, but that wasn’t the reason for Gilbert’s cheerfulness.

Every Tuesday morning between the hours of nine and ten, Gilbert knew to expect Arthur Kirkland. He did not know much about Arthur beyond his weekly visits to the café and his partiality to the daily crossword puzzles in the broadsheets. He had learned of Arthur’s name only a week ago, when Arthur lacked cash and sheepishly paid by direct debit, and had secretly relished the privileged information ever since.

Gilbert was all too aware of himself; what started as fondness for a good-natured regular had developed into a full-blown obsession, and Gilbert was finding it harder and harder to excuse himself, especially when he began purposefully to cover the shifts coinciding with Arthur’s regular-as-clockwork visits.

The door swung open and in stepped Arthur with a rolled-up _Guardian_ tucked under his arm. Gilbert was already at the tea stand, poised to prepare a brew of Earl Grey (dash of milk, two sugars), and cheerfully, casually, he greeted, “The usual, Mr Kirkland?”

A flicker of surprise, then an appreciative nod and in a crisp English accent, “Yes please, Mr Weilschmidt, thank you.”

**Summer**

It was a lazy summer afternoon and the air was thick with a hazy heat and buzzing flies. On a grassy knoll under the obliging shade of a silver birch tree sat Arthur, nose-deep in a well-worn copy of _Nineteen Eighty Four_ , and a napping Gilbert.

Moments earlier Gilbert had settled his head in Arthur’s lap amid the latter’s indignant squawks, sighed a contented, “You’re the perfect height,” and promptly fell asleep. With the red-faced countenance of one determined to make the best of a compromising situation, Arthur returned to his book and pretended at nonchalance, but betrayed himself with a hand that idly strayed to stroke Gilbert’s hair.

And so the hours ticked quietly by, with the occasional breeze rustling the trees and sending white, wispy clouds drifting in a lazy fashion across the blue skies. It was bliss as Arthur never knew it.

**Autumn**

The leaves crackled underfoot, a carpet of red, yellow and brown. But for the withered leaves that clung stubbornly to the end of branches, the trees were bald and burdened with early frost. The sky was a moody grey and seemed to press down on the earth. All of this Arthur noted in the second it took for him to fall to the forest floor.

He laid where he landed, laughing hysterically, and bunched handfuls of leaves to throw at Gilbert. They scattered and fluttered uselessly in his general direction; Gilbert simply brushed them off, then made to pounce on Arthur who let out a rather embarrassingly high-pitched squeal and tried to roll away.

He was happy. He was very happy. As they tumbled and rolled in the sea of fallen leaves, Arthur felt happier than he could remember ever being in his entire life. They finally came to a stop, panting breathlessly in bursts of white puffs. Then their lips met, crashing together in clumsy, all-consuming passion, and Arthur thought his heart would burst from his happiness.

He never wanted this to end.

**Winter**

It was a week before Christmas. Gilbert took a quick survey of the flat, declared the place inhabitable, and rushed off in his old beat-up Volkswagen to the nearest store to buy all the essential cleaning materials that Arthur’s home seemed to lack. He returned an hour later to a bemused Arthur who took one look at his purchases – a vacuum cleaner among other things – and chided him for being excessive.

“Consider these your Christmas gifts, darling,” Gilbert said as he unravelled his scarf and shrugged off his coat, giving Arthur a quick peck to the cheek.

By Christmas Eve the place was sparkling. The living room was clear of the teetering piles of books (currently stored in Arthur’s study where they belong) and a lovely fire roared in the newly swept fireplace. Arthur and Gilbert lay sprawled on the rug, kissing languidly, slightly wine-sodden, in front of the crackling fire that wafted the sweet smell of pine cones. They could hear the wind howling ferociously outside, and felt quite snug in the little nest they have made for themselves.

“I never thanked you,” Arthur sighed contentedly.

“For what?” Gilbert murmured sleepily.

“Everything,” Arthur said. Gilbert felt he understood.

He shifted to his side so he could look into Arthur’s bright green eyes, wanting to convey this to the best of his limited ability, and said, “I never thanked you either.”

“Whatever for?” A tone of surprise.

“For making me the happiest man alive.”


End file.
